


Super Bass

by willgrahamchops



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Inanimate Object Porn, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey gets intimate with a subwoofer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Super Bass

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the title.

Mikey is in love.

It’s the most massive system he’s ever seen, with a speakers taller than Frank. Every note bounces off the thousands of empty seats. It probably uses enough power to keep Tokyo running for weeks. And the best part is, it’s Mikey’s, at least until sound check starts.

He stares it down from across the stage. It calls to him.

And, it’s not like anybody’s going to mind if he warms up on it. He doesn’t exactly know who it belongs to, but he’s not going to hurt it or anything, and even if somebody sees, they’re not going to get suspicious. Mikey’s prepared with a baggy, thigh-length hoodie that he stole from Ray to cover the evidence. He’s safe.

His footsteps echo around the arena as he approaches. He’s nervous, of course, but he’s been eyeing it since he got here, and he’s not going to miss his chance. He has to stand on Frank’s box to get on top. He’s already plugged in and ready to go, his bass in its stand, within arm’s reach, and the sound board (all the way across the goddamn arena) is going to be completely fucked before check, but its settings are perfect for Mikey’s purposes. All that’s left is for him to reach between his splayed legs and fineness the controls on his comparatively tiny amp. He starts with the volume pretty low, turns the treble all the way down -- fuck treble -- and switches it on. The buzz of feedback rips through his body. Mikey shudders and picks up his bass, silencing the strings.

For a few seconds, he just waits, fingers poised -- this anticipation is something he rarely gets to experience. Before, he’s always done this at crowded clubs with constant noise, be it a steady electronic beat or the messy tones of a shitty punk band. Sit on the woofer, have a beer, act nonchalant. He’s never gotten to enjoy the silence.

Eventually, though, he just can’t help himself.

Every muscle clenches with the first note -- a tentative open D, because he’s saving the lower notes for later. It’s so much better than he could have imagined. Even at this volume, quieter than they would ever set him on stage, the vibrations shake Mikey’s entire body. He resolutely keeps his mouth shut until the last reverberation of the sound is gone, and then he sighs. He plays the note again.

“Fuck,” Mikey murmurs. He could do this forever, but he only has so much time, so he turns up the volume.

The first thing that comes to mind is the bassline to Planetary, so that’s what he plays. It shakes him to the core, makes his teeth chatter, makes the zipper on his hoodie buzz against its metal track -- it feels so good he wants to fucking cry, and it’s so different, when it’s his music. When he controls it. 

He has to stop to catch his breath. Louder. Five out of ten.

It's so intense he can barely take it. He silently thanks god for the earplugs in his pocket, and then not so silently groans when they're in. It actually intensifies the effect, allowing Mikey to feel the music more than hear it. He speeds up, playing the song at about twice its actual speed. When it's over, he does it again.

Mikey inches his legs further apart and rocks down onto the speaker, back and forth, pressing himself as close as he can get. He misses a few notes, and the sharp, clashing sounds tear him apart from the inside out. Louder. Seven.

Sweat drips down his back and adheres his hair to his face – he's trying not to tense up, really, but it's nearly impossible. His palms smudge the pick guard. 

Everything is entirely overwhelming, especially the knowledge that he still has further to go. He promises himself he's not going to finish this without turning up all the way, but Christ, he's so fucking close. 

Using every ounce of his willpower, Mikey silences the strings. The loss is immediate, and he involuntarily ruts against the speaker. He's so numb from the vibration he can barely feel it – only one place to go from here.

He turns it up to eleven, metaphorically. 

“Fuck,” Mikey breathes. Even the feedback is way too much to handle. His entire body is going to be numb after this. He just barely touches his E string, and then immediately silences it. Restraining himself is nearly impossible, but he does it. Just finish the song.

Except, Mikey can't. He plays three notes and stops again, holding his breath. Okay, change of plans. Mikey counts to three, and then strums all four strings at once as hard as he possibly can.

His vision goes white. Mikey comes in his pants, for maybe the third or fourth time since he got out of high school. It's sort of humiliating, but mostly it's the best thing he's ever felt – and it feels like he comes forever; the vibrations won't let it stop.

He silences his strings when it gets to be too much, when he gets oversensitive, and hangs his head and breathes. He feels completely blank, like a board that's been sandpapered. Numb and warm.

Eventually, he works up the strength to kick the switch on his amp into the off position – a practiced maneuver – and he slides gingerly off the speaker. Standing is sort of hard. His legs are jelly. Worse than jelly. Water, maybe. He needs to change his pants.

* * *

Gerard is doing his makeup in the dressing room, not for the first time this afternoon and certainly not for the last. He tends to do it and redo it when he gets nervous, even though he inevitably smudges it all off throughout the day.

Mikey doesn't say anything as he walks in, trying to be covert. He pulls a fresh pair of underwear from his duffel (for certain values of fresh meaning not sticky.)

“Was that you practicing?” Gerard asks, not taking his eyes off his own face.

“Yeah,” says Mikey. No point in lying.

“Oh,” says Gerard. After a moment, he turns around and leans against the vanity. “You're not going to play it that badly tonight.” He cracks a small smile. It's not a question.

“I'm not,” Mikey confirms. He shimmies into his jeans as quickly as possible, which is especially difficult with Gerard watching him.

As he's zipping up, Gerard says, “You know, you could just do it like a normal person.”

It takes Mikey a moment to realize what he's talking about, and when he does, he can't cover up the blush spreading across his face. He plays dumb. 

“Practice?” He asks.

Gerard's smile widens. “Yeah,” he says. “Practice.”


End file.
